


Subtlety Is Thy Name

by constellationstreet



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Eames Is a Total Cockblocker, M/M, Should Probably Have a Crack Tag, Sort of Fake Boyfriends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 08:55:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/595856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/constellationstreet/pseuds/constellationstreet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Eames gets progressively ridiculous, and Arthur just wants to get laid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Subtlety Is Thy Name

1.

The first time it happens, it's surely unintentional and Arthur's mood is light enough that he, generously, only thinks  _Oh!_  and  _Mmm_.

Eames may be a little drunk and, consequently, a little blind, which probably explains why it's happening in the first place—and, well, Arthur can't say his head is any clearer than Eames's, so, in direct opposition to his standard Eames-related constitution, he decides they're both to blame. Arthur's lips are blazing with the sudden kiss and there's a tingle rushing along the surface of his skin, the wake of fingertips dragging lightly up his arm. It feels sort of  _amazing_ , despite the sharp smell of alcohol, despite the hotel bar's fiercely determined attempts to flip onto its side— 

And despite Arthur's vague recollection that, that,  _something_. Damn.

Arthur presses himself into Eames. His hands are tangled in Eames's hair, and he tugs needily at the errant strands at his nape, willing the kiss deeper. There's a plainly proprietary hand curling against his hip, and Arthur feels a pleasant heat spreading out from where it rests, like warm whispers through the cotton of his shirt. When he sighs, the sound is caught between Eames's lips, and Arthur thinks he shouldn't waste air like that, not if he wants to keep at this, to stay lost in Eames and the crush of his mouth.

Eames shifts away then, as if he hears and decides the only course of action is to be stupid and  _withhold any action at all_. Arthur attempts to glare through the fog round his head and when that doesn't work, grumps and focusses on relearning to breathe. Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur thinks he sees Ariadne and Cobb watching—one watching, one squinting, really—with impressively contained amusement. They're clearly better at the whole drinking thing than Yusuf, who's become frighteningly exuberant, laughing hysterically and clutching at his sides as beer splashes over the rim of his pint and onto his trousers.

'What?' Arthur slurs at them.

Yusuf gestures at the general expanse of people bobbing up and down behind Eames's shoulder. It's dizzying, but Arthur stares hard and thinks the gesture could be aimed at a curvy sort of blur that's marching away into the crowd. He can't be sure. Not when Eames's proximity is still very much distracting.

'What?' Arthur says again, and Yusuf tries and fails to give him a pointed look.

It isn't until Eames has abandoned him with a merry clap to the back and he's tottered unsteadily into his hotel room, has collapsed onto his bedto groan flushed, frustrated and  _alone_  into a pillow, that he remembers: he'd had a date for the night. 

 

2. 

The second time it happens, Arthur winces and tells himself it's an unavoidable, if deeply unfavourable, turn of circumstance.

He's stretched out along the cushions of his sofa, burning up in spite of the mild breeze that seeps into his living room from a half-open window. There's a heavy warmth pressing into him, one that would be almost uncomfortable if his blood weren't thrumming in his veins and his limbs weren't trembling under a siege of kisses. Arthur digs his fingernails into open planes of skin, soothes the resulting marks with the pads of his thumbs and moves to trace over seam upon seam of muscle. He smirks when he hears a low voice calling his name.

'Arthur!'

'Yes?' Arthur asks, ghosting the question across a heaving collarbone.

'Arthur!'

When the voice sounds piercingly loud and absolutely not where he's expecting it to come from, Arthur jolts and nearly falls off the sofa taking his potential—and he'll likely never get beyond 'potential', at this rate—tumble with him.

'What the fuck, Eames!' Arthur yells.

Eames is leaning with his back against the door to Arthur's flat, which Arthur is sure he'd bolted shut, how could Eames have possibly gotten in? Eames, to his credit, looks entirely unaffected by the  _privacy_  he's shattered. There's an odd quality to his appearance, though, and Arthur's anger and confusion are momentarily defused by the thought. He's dishevelled. Perfectly dishevelled, and Arthur can't place what it is about it, but— 

'Arthur,' Eames says again and jerks his head meaningfully. Arthur glances to his side, at the man fumbling to pull a throw pillow over his lap, and he sighs ruefully.

'Here,' Arthur says, faintly relieved that at least they hadn't gotten round to  _his_ pants. He manoeuvres amongst the cushions and pillows and begins collecting their discarded clothing. Then he shoves the wrinkled bundle at the man and inclines his head towards the door.

When he's gone, Arthur turns to Eames, and his expression is calm and expectant, though anyone who's ever dealt with him before knows there's utter fury simmering just underneath it.

'Well?' Arthur grinds out.

Eames clears his throat. 'There were these men,' he says. 'With guns.'

And when Arthur quirks a disbelieving eyebrow at him, he pauses, grins and says, 'Sorry 'bout the lock.'

 

3.

The third time it happens, Arthur thinks he expects it. Except he really, really doesn't.

'Look, darling,' says Eames, winking conspiratorially at him. 'They're for tonight.'

'I don't know what you're talking about,' says Arthur, and he tightens his hold on Charity or Pestilence or whatever her name is who's snuggling into the crook of his arm. He attempts to steer her into a nearby coffee shop, but Eames steps in front of them before they can get very far.

'You'll like them,' he promises. 'I'll make sure of it.' 

Arthur frowns when Eames holds out the grocery bag he's been carrying and shakes it insistently. He knows, he  _knows_ , with all his being and with all the desperate cries of common sense that he shouldn't look, but he does anyway. And he blinks. Then he tries to swallow against a dim sense of hysteria that's beginning to claw slowly up his throat.

'They seem. Healthy,' says Arthur hoarsely, gazing down into the bag and at the aubergines that sit there glistening. 'Very. Err, large,' he continues and tries not to blush. He can swear they're  _leering_.

'Oh, they are,' says Eames. Arthur eyes one as Eames pulls it out, waggles it outrageously and drops it back in the bag. 'Bigger than last time, because I remember you—'

'Eames!' Arthur chokes out.

'Oh,' says Charity or Pestilence at the same time. 'I didn't know—he didn't tell me he was—' She cuts herself off and titters embarrassedly, first at the bag and then at Eames. Then she turns and peers curiously up at Arthur, who looks ashen despite the warm light that spills out across the pavement. 'Are you all right?'

'He's fine,' says Eames wickedly, and Arthur wants nothing more than to introduce his head to the nearest wall.

 

4.

The fourth time it happens, Arthur is convinced Eames is nothing but a monumental  _dick_.

'What do you want?' he asks suspiciously, regarding Eames with a slanted look as he approaches the bar. He's positive Eames shouldn't know where he is. At least, not without the aid of tremendous research and definitely not without the liberal application of fiscal incentive.

Eames smiles easily at him, but ignores the question and drifts his gaze over Arthur's latest date.

'Hello?' she says, doubtful.

'Hello,' says Eames with another smile. He turns back to Arthur and nods appreciatively. 'Lovely,' he says, and Arthur's eyes immediately narrow in distrust.

'Of course,' says Arthur.

'Lovely,' Eames repeats, then stares between Arthur's legs, his polite smile twisting into a smirk. He makes an absurd, wiggling motion with one hand, then grandly attempts to point at Arthur's crotch without actually pointing at it, because that would be very crude indeed. 'So it's cleared up then?' he asks, voice dripping with concern.

'What?' says Arthur, and then his eyes nearly pop out, and he sputters panickedly. 'No! I mean, yes! I mean, there was never—' he shrieks in horror, before remembering himself and, so subtly that Eames absolutely does not raise his eyebrow in amusement at him, sliding the syllable into a feeble cough.

'What I mean to say is _,_ ' Arthur continues coolly, but it's too late because it's clear he's just lost  _another one_. He watches morosely as she sidles away, bemoans the horrified look on her face and then tries valiantly not to sob.

 

5.

By the time Arthur decides he's had enough, he's suffered through more instances of produce-related molestation than is conceivably acceptable, several insinuations of disgusting and unnatural bodily secretions and one alarming proposal involving two goats and an inflatable pool.

 

6.

When Eames sees Arthur, he doesn't actually see him so much as feel him, an imperious and unrelenting pressure that forces him to the floor of his hotel room and squeezes the breath out of his lungs. Had he the ability to think, he would—he'd wonder if it's a dream and grope emphatically for his totem, but as his brain functions have shut down entirely, he settles for simply groping instead.

Though Arthur beats him to it.

Eames is writhing and groaning before he can register Arthur's hands on his skin, slick on the moisture that glazes his stomach and soaks into the waistband of his trousers, hot and wet like the slide of Arthur's mouth on his. Arthur's kiss is rough. His breath comes in short gasps between each frantic touch of lip on lip, on cheek, on chest, and Eames can sense the way he's shaking like he's seconds away from falling apart. When Arthur grinds down on Eames, it's an irresistible demand, as maddening as when his thighs clench and  _possess_ on either side of Eames. It's fevered but startlingly sober, or as sober as it can be when Eames is reduced to  _this_ , to a litany of  _Arthur, Arthur, Arthur_ thrilling in his bones and in the tremors of his body, in the graze of stubble across his jaw and the way he doesn't even realise he's shoving up, up,  _fuck yes_ , shameless and achingly hard against Arthur until a gentle touch stills him.

'You know,' Arthur says, eyes twinkling, 'you could have just asked.'

**Author's Note:**

> So this was actually written last year? But I dug it up from the pit of embarrassing things that is my hard drive and decided to inflict it on people. Sorry. (It was actually for a five times and fake boyfriends Secret Santa prompt, but wow, did THAT go awry.)


End file.
